


The Captain's Tower

by trashcandrafts



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coma, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Serum Malfunction, idk enjoy this nonsense that I have written for you, sorry for my horrible butchering of Clint's character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcandrafts/pseuds/trashcandrafts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the shock of Bucky's death keeps Steve from waking properly from cryo. Instead, he slips into a coma. Afraid that close contact will infect much-needed agents, SHIELD seals him in an upper tower. Insider information allows Hydra agents to determine that Steve Rogers, Captain America, is still alive and only temporarily incapacitated in an offsite location- a repurposed old stone castle in the French countryside. They program one of their most successful projects for the mission- after all, who could be better to take out Captain America than the Winter Soldier? Stripped of his memories of their childhood together, the Soldier sets out to do his job: He will eliminate the sleeping superhero and ensure that no one has the power to stop Hydra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve Rogers - The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> 1- No one (at least no one you care about) permanently dies. Promise. I included the archive warning because Steve gets super angsty about Bucky's canon "death."
> 
> 2- There was a post going around Tumblr with 52 short story prompts, one per week of 2016. I did this for #3, a retelling of a fairytale. (So it's horribly cheesy and mostly just setup. It's not Rapunzel, though that would be amusing. In that case I would make Bucky the princess.)
> 
> 3- This is the second stucky thing I've ever tried to write. Normally I mostly read & write merthur (though I realize that no one would know that, since I've never posted anything) so... sorry if this is terrible.
> 
> 4- Obviously not my characters or my fairytale. If you leave kudos I will love you forever, comments and I owe you my firstborn, etc. ❤ Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For your enjoyment: Giant angsty baby, Steve Rogers.

 

 

 

 

    The operation had gone perfectly. Steve had responded to the serum well, and despite some initial discomfort during the procedure, the overwhelming high of being able to breathe freely, see everything in minute detail, and finally protect the country he’d wanted for so long to protect was worth it.

    The war went fine.

    Well. Fine was an overstatement. War was never fine, and for all Steve had wanted to join, it hurt to see good people dying by the dozen, sometimes by the hundred. The war was successful, and that’s what all those good people had signed up to accomplish. Steve would have to settle for that.

    War is a hectic time, though, and in the midst of changing world history, it was all too easy to forget that Steve Rogers, the prodigy who’d come to stand for America, was still a pretty risky experiment. The little shocks weren’t ever a problem. Steve Rogers had prepared his whole life to be shot at. Steve Rogers had always believed America would win the war. Steve Rogers had always believed that great evil existed, and always felt that it was his job to fight that evil. The things that Steve Rogers had prepared himself for over the last two decades couldn’t phase Captain America in the slightest. His team saw this, and they decided that the serum had worked. In a way, for a while, it did.

Steve Rogers always knew he’d see his best friend again. When he did, there was pain, and joy, and laughter, and crying. Bucky was hurt, but Bucky recovered, and so did Steve. So, in turn, did Captain America.

    Steve Rogers always knew he’d see his best friend again. He saw his best friend, in perfect technicolor precision, falling, despite the snow, despite the distance. Bucky Barnes seemed to fall forever.

    Steve Rogers always knew he’d see his best friend again. They only found an arm- there was no body to lay gently in a casket, no familiar face to reconcile with the vast idea of death.

    Steve Rogers always knew he’d see his best friend again. He knew it, and he knew it, and he knew it, but everyone who knew better told him it was over. Bucky was dead.

    Steve Rogers always knew he’d see his best friend again.

    “Hey, Steve, are you okay?”  
    He paused on his way out the door for the briefest moment. Then he spat a word in his head that he’d never (intentionally) said aloud. He couldn’t very well leave now that Peggy had seen that he’d heard her.  
    “Uh, yeah,” he replied over his shoulder without meeting her eyes. His hand was shaking. That had been getting worse- ever since the Event. He hadn’t told anyone. There was a war. He held as still as he could- he hated lying to Peggy, had managed to avoid it until this moment, and the idea of leaving if she wasn’t done speaking to him seemed unbearably rude. His affection for her, after all, was only matched by his respect for her, and lying already stung a little. In the end, though, she just sighed.  
    “Alright. You know where to find me if you need me,” she added. Steve let out a silent breath of relief. “And Steve,” she added, “get some rest. They’ll be celebrating tomorrow, and you still owe me that dance when we get back.” There was still shooting, but even the Germans knew where victory was going by now. The rescue they’d performed today wouldn’t have been possible a month ago.  
    Steve’s gaze snapped to her face with a surprised smile. He could see that she knew something was wrong, but if he wasn’t ready to talk about it, she wasn’t going to force the issue. He was suddenly wildly grateful.  
    “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Peggy.”  
    She dismissed him after that, laughing something about rank as she shooed him out the door, and despite the early hour, Steve really did head to his bunk.  
    The room was almost empty. He laughed at some joke he hadn’t paid attention to, made some excuse about being dead tired, and slipped under his blanket to wait for the others to leave. One by one, they did.  
    Turning onto his side, Steve dug under his mattress and pulled out a thick envelope. The paper of the letters was thin, both because it was initially terrible quality, and because he’d turned each sheet of paper over and over in his fingers since the Event. It felt… wrong, getting rid of Bucky’s things. Steve’s own pulse seemed a testament that Bucky was out there, breathing, somewhere, but… Steve didn’t know what to think. In the face of confusion, it was easiest (and safest) just to do what his CO told him to, so he nodded his head and tried to make himself believe the terrible truth. Bucky was gone. He would never see his best friend again.  
    The fourth letter was Steve’s favorite, but as always when he felt like this, he braced his shaking hands against his knees and read through from the very first words Bucky had written him after deployment.

 _Stevie,_  
_Don’t know if I’ll get around to sending this before I’m back in the States with you. That just seems awfully far away right now. Wish I could be back in Brooklyn with you, but of course I know we’re doing something good. I’m glad you’re not here- a scrawny little kid like you…_

 

* * *

 

    Only a couple of days later, Steve found himself on a Hydra bomber heading toward New York. It was heading too fast toward too many people, and he couldn’t think. The bombs weren’t logistics right now, they were just liabilities. The plane was a liability. The whole war was a trap, dragging him time and time again into situations, like this one, like the Event, where everything that was important was falling because of him, and he could almost see Brooklyn in flames, the way he’d seen every detail of Bucky’s face as he’d fallen…  
    …And now he’d wasted time again. Just like with Bucky, he’d wasted precious minutes that could have saved priceless American lives. People depended on him, on Captain America. His hands were shaking harder than they ever had before, and with a horrible feeling, Steve realized that he wasn’t fit to fly this plane. It didn’t matter. He was the only one there, hands shaking or no, vision cracking or no, chest seizing or no.

    “It’s not going to be a safe landing.”

    He knew he said things before that, but those were the first words that made it out of his lungs, past his swollen tongue, through the clawing (suffocating) wind, and into his ears with any sort of clarity. Peggy seemed to understand him just fine, and Steve wondered if that meant it was his old hearing problems making a reappearance, rather than something wrong with the way he spoke. Either way, it didn’t inspire much confidence in him.

    “It’s moving too fast and it’s heading for New York.”

    His words sounded far too organized to his own ears. Even Peggy was scared- he could hear it in her voice.

    “I gotta put her in the water,” Steve added. That made sense. He could probably do that. That was the merit of acting fast, after all- there was plenty of water. He could land in the water. He could do that. She would believe him and New York would be safe and he wouldn’t fuck up again like he had with Bucky.  
    For some reason, dwelling on that didn’t seem to help.

    “Please, d-don’t do this, w-we have time, we can work it out,” Peggy begged from the other side of the line, but Steve knew better than that.

    “Right now I’m in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die.”

    He resolved not to tell her about the shaking. He didn’t think he could stand right now if he tried, even if this was solid ground, and he was pretty sure it was just getting worse. Telling her about the relapse, the shaking, the fact that he’d started carrying around his inhaler again because sometimes he needed it again- now wasn’t the time.

    “Peggy,” he told her, eyes straight ahead and his voice a forced calm, “this is my choice.”

    The gloves and his shaking combined to conspire against him, but he just barely managed to fish her picture out of his pocket and place it on the dashboard in front of him.     She had been like the North Star to him, all this time. He wished he’d gotten a chance to celebrate her properly- and he realized: “Peggy.” For a second he couldn’t quite breathe, but pushed out the syllables anyway. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”

    There was ice in sight now. Steve couldn’t decide whether to try to land on it or avoid it, but it wasn’t really a question he had any control over. His whole weight against the control column was the only way he could stay steady enough to steer the thing down. Complex maneuvering was a bit outside the realm of possibility. It was all up to hope, prayer, and the comfort that Peggy tried to send through her voice, despite the tears that crept in.

    “Alright. A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club.”

    Steve confirmed, listening to her voice as he tried not to vomit at the violent shudders going through his body. He couldn’t tell what was muscle spasms and shortness of breath anymore, and what was the plane, protesting against the sharp angle and accumulation of speed.

    He was barely paying attention to her words anymore, overwhelmed with the juddering aircraft and looming plates of ice.

    “You know, I still don’ know how to dance.”

    She replied softly, something reassuring and full of tears. For a brief moment, Steve wondered if she’d shed any of those tears yet, but the idea of anything making Peggy- his Peggy- cry wasn’t helping the situation at all. Whatever she said ended with “Just be there,” and though Steve could mostly manage to shape words, that wasn’t a promise he could make.

    “We’ll have the band play somethin’ slow,” he told her instead. “I’d hate to step on your feet,” he tried to add, but before the last word, the ice reared up to greet him. For a fraction of a second, Steve felt a bit like a candle facing a firehose and then, just as it would be with the candle, everything was gone.


	2. The Soldier - Mission Parameters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...this is the cheesy part. Good luck with that.  
>  (You are allowed to be upset about my cheesy usage of that last line. :/)

 

 

  
    The Soldier sat still.

    There was always bustle around him. Occasionally, he wondered if the bustle stopped, when they put him to sleep. Whole days would go by, he vaguely knew. At least, he thought he knew that. They wiped his memory after every job. One of the technicians muttered something about it not being very precise, since the technology was still new. They seemed to forget who he was, sometimes- that he could hear things, see things, a little better than they could. Well, maybe they just didn’t care. The Soldier was nothing if not loyal, after all.

    “Soldier. Attention.”

    That was his Handler. The Soldier was fairly sure that the Handler used to look different, but couldn’t remember well enough to distinguish if it was a different person, or if it was something as small as a haircut or a broken nose. Everything was constantly shifting- it wasn’t his job to notice. It was his job to follow orders. He watched the Handler’s face in his peripheral vision, waiting for his next command. It didn’t take long.

    “This target will not resist, but is well protected. Kill whomever you must to reach him. This is the floor plan.” The Handler opened a folder and flipped through a few sheets of paper which the Soldier could not see. Russian was like piano, the Soldier decided while waiting for further instructions. Some people played their voices full of melodic, lilting chords as they tumbled from one syllable to the next. The Handler spoke a more pragmatic sort of Russian, leaving no room for doubt between his carefully enunciated consonants. This observation was not accompanied by any sort of moral, or even aesthetic judgement on the Soldier’s part- it was merely an observation. The Handler lifted his eyes again, offering two thin sheets of paper, and the Soldier quieted his thoughts in favor of focus. He took the paper with his right hand- while both were equally capable of doing detailed work with weapons, ending lives, or pulling him up a steep incline, he still preferred his flesh-and-bone hand for more delicate materials, like paper and cloth.

    The Handler went silent for nearly two minutes to allow the Soldier to study the floor plan. The Soldier’s memory wasn’t photographic, but it was quite good, and he made note of all of the relevant details. In the southernmost corner of the building was marked a small red X on both sheets. Noting the staircase on the first plan, the Soldier flipped to the second sheet, which depicted the upper stories of the building. Sure enough, there in the southern corner of the building, third floor, was a small red X. He studied both sheets in more detail, noting the windows and doors. One plan was sure to fail, but if he had five, he would probably be able to succeed.

    “This is not a massacre mission,” the Handler continued, and the Soldier returned his gaze to the wall across from him, accepting without question that his time to study the materials was over. The Handler took the materials back and returned them to the folder, instead handing the Soldier a printout of the landscape, overlaid with thin lines of latitude and longitude. He continued to speak as the Soldier looked over the paper, where the destination was outlined in red. “Focus on your primary target. Your destination is 50°03'10.6"N by 1°54'17.9"E,” the Handler added. “We will drop you off here.” He tapped the paper about a mile northeast of the destination. “Avoid heavily populated areas. Get in, kill him, get out. You will have three hours before pickup at the drop-off site.”

    The Handler paused and the Soldier skimmed the paper one more time. It shouldn’t be a problem. Most of the trip would be through the woods anyway, so there was an amount of built-in cover. A few small towns dotted the area, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to avoid them.

    “Have you completed basic hygiene protocol?” the Handler asked as he retrieved the printout and added it to the folder once more. The Soldier straightened and nodded once, sharply.

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Good,” came the response. “Be ready to leave in five minutes.” With that, he left. The Soldier watched the door, waiting. He was always ready to leave. This was what they made him for.

* * *

  
    The drop went smoothly. The helicopter hovered low enough to the ground for him to jump out into a wide field, and was careening out of sight again before he fully straightened again. Knowing he had limited time, the Soldier quickly got his bearings and started heading south. It was only eight in the evening right now, and already fully dark. He knew he could see better than most people in the dark and welcomed that advantage, but his body had started associating the cold with hibernation between missions; he knew that if he didn’t get moving now, he would slow down significantly. He would still make it to the destination and back on time if there was no trouble, but he didn’t want to take that risk. He headed out.

    The first person he saw took the Soldier by surprise. It was dark out, and he didn’t expect anyone to be mowing their fields in the dark. The farmer gave a shout of surprise, but Bucky darted away before the man could identify him as human.

    A little later, the Soldier found himself skirting a few yards. The houses looked peaceful, gone quiet and lit from the inside as they readied for the night. Maybe he was imagining it, but it felt a little warmer close to them. Every time a curtain rustled, he jumped. He stuck close to the houses for a while, but didn’t dare go any closer, and ran along the town’s perimeter rather than walking.

    The woods, though colder, were almost a bit of a relief after avoiding houses in the open. For the first few minutes, the Soldier still nursed a quiet concern that someone would see him despite the thick scattering of trees, but no one seemed interested in going such a place this time of day (or maybe it was this time of year) and he continued his journey without issue.

    He was surprised to find no guards outside to greet him when he came to the destination. The Soldier knew that this was the back of the building, but anywhere they sent him was usually fiercely guarded. The quiet made him wary- he liked to see his enemies clearly, every detail of their hands and gait, before they saw him. The Soldier preferred to see every detail of his enemy’s face in complete detail, watch in perfect technicolor precision as he made the shot and as they fell. He headed southeast, skirting the trees along the back of the building.

    That technician, back at base, had said something about why the memory wipe wasn’t as effective as people might have hoped. It was necessary that the Soldier remember skills such as walking, running, and complex rules of various languages. The Soldier’s sense of beauty, though much less relevant to his missions, was much deeper engrained in his mind than the complexities of French grammar, so that stayed. It was due to this little programming error, rather than any strategic contemplations, that the Soldier found himself scanning the high stone walls that made up the building. Sure, he would have to get in and out efficiently. The building was gorgeous, though, even from the back.

    When he finally managed to tear himself away from the view, the Soldier crept up to the building. There were curtains covering the high arched window on the inside, but they weren’t solid, so between a few cabinets and book cases, he could see four people assembled. One of them was tall, somewhat muscular, and had dark hair. He wore a dark blue T-shirt and faded blue jeans with sneakers, laughing at something a shorter blond man had said. The blond seemed vaguely offended by the laughter adjusting his dark green shirt self-consciously, and seemed to say as much, both to the man and to a woman with a light brown ponytail, a long-sleeved blue shirt, and dark jeans. She also laughed. In the corner, a man dressed in a black turtleneck and black pants sat by himself, but also chuckled at the antics of his companions. All of them wore bulletproof vests over their clothes. The laughing man and the sitting man were visibly armed, but the Soldier couldn’t be sure that the others weren’t armed. None of them seemed to expect any sort of trouble.

    The Soldier pulled away from the window.

    He wasn’t sure who had said it- maybe his Handler, long ago- but someone had once told him to “save the shooting for the end, if you can. That way at least if something goes wrong, the mission’s still done.” It was much more conversational than his Handler usually was with him. The Soldier couldn’t remember the voice, the face, or the circumstance anymore; only the words. He could remember all sorts of strange, unimportant things.

    Though the quote was strange and out of context, the Soldier resolved to follow the advice if possible. It was logical enough, after all. Stepping out of sight of the first floor window, he found a second story window in the tower where the target would be. Hopefully he could make it inside without making too much noise. The stone wall gave him enough spaces to hold onto that climbing up wasn’t much of a problem at all. Once he got to the window, he hung on to the sill with his right hand and used the bionic left hand to wrench one of the hinges sideways. His left arm was just slightly stronger than his right, giving him a bit more control over the process. The twisting metal still seemed impossibly loud to his ears, and he ducked below the window to wait. After two minutes (the seconds silently, patiently counted out in his head as he hung, waiting) the Soldier decided that no one had heard after all. He pulled himself up and let himself in through the new opening, window swung harmlessly out of the way.

    The stone steps spiraled upward, promising the Soldier’s destination up ahead. He glanced down the steps quickly over his shoulder, but there was only a quiet murmur of unsuspecting voices from the bottom of the stairs. He set out for the next floor.

    The door at the end of the stairs was wooden, bound in black metal as if it had been constructed before any sort of modern buildings. Hesitantly, the Soldier tried the handle. He expected it to be locked, and that he would have to find some other way through the door, but it swung open easily, thankfully without a sound. Blinking in surprise, the Soldier stepped inside and closed the door once more behind him. He wasn’t sure how much soundproofing it had to offer him, but he would take whatever he could get.  
In the center of the room was a bed. On a small table on the opposite side of the bed was what appeared to be a small ball of yellow light which seemed to cast a faint glow across the whole bed. It made the Soldier nervous, but he didn’t know exactly what it was or how to destroy it, so he reached out and touched the glow briefly with his left hand. Nothing happened, and it offered no resistance. He tried with his right hand as well, and found that it felt a little warmer than the air outside, but otherwise no different.  

    The Soldier stepped closer to the bed.

    The man in the bed was large, with blond hair and a strange sort of blue suit. His breaths were deep and even, but he didn’t move at all, despite the Soldier’s close proximity. The Soldier frowned at the door over his shoulder.

    Automatic weapons were his favorite method of completing missions, because they were clean and efficient. In this case, though, any sort of shot was sure to echo down the stairs and get him caught. He had a knife with him, but wanted to avoid blood on the off chance that someone saw him on the way back. Getting out was always easier without blood on him. Strangling it was.

    The Soldier’s Handler had said that the target would not resist, and now the soldier could see why. He was in a coma. It felt strange, preparing to kill someone who couldn’t fight back in any way, but the Soldier resolved himself to obey his orders, as always.

    He took off his right glove.

    The Soldier always found that his bare right hand was the best way to cut off sound from a target’s mouth. It molded to fill in the gaps between the target’s teeth and lips better than his left hand, or even the glove he generally wore on his right hand. Hydra had “modified” his fingertips (with scars that were so old they were almost soft by now) so that he no longer left fingerprints. This target wasn’t likely to bite him, so there was no problem.

    The body in the bed jolted at the touch of the Soldier’s palm against its lips. Startled, the Soldier pulled back. Pain seemed to take over the features of the man in the bed. He grimaced, eyes still closed, then slowly curled onto his side, toward the Soldier.

    “B-Bucky,” the Soldier heard him gasp out. It sounded like the man was being crushed to death. “Buck-”

* * *

    It hit him like a freight train.

    The Soldier was fully functional. The Soldier was up to date. The Soldier was not in need of repair. The Soldier was well maintained. The Soldier _certainly_ did not have flashbacks.

* * *

 _“Buck, you goin’ out for the night, or you stayin’ in?”_  
_Steve didn’t even look up from his sketchbook, though a tiny pout seemed to have taken up residence on his face. Bucky raised an eyebrow._  
_“Why?” he asked, watching Steve’s face with a smirk. “You jealous?”_  
_He didn’t have any plans, but messing with Steve was always his favorite hobby. Steve looked up and scowled at him, charcoal smudges all down one cheek. Bucky’s smirk turned into a grin, and Steve scowled harder._  
_“No,” the blond boy lied. “Jus’ wanna know if I gotta hear your shitty music all night.”_  
_Bucky wrestled his grin under control as he got up and walked over._  
_“Oh Stevie, you ain’t gotta lie to me. You know you love me.”  
_ _He bent down and planted a loud kiss straight in the middle of Steve’s pout._

* * *

He didn’t realize he was doing it.

The Soldier lurched upright again as his lips grazed those of the man in the bed. Those lips were… unexpectedly warm, but then again, the whole thing was unexpected. What was he doing? This wasn’t his mission. This wasn’t his job. This was the target.

The man in the bed opened his eyes. The tiniest cracking sound came from the ball on the table and the glow melted away, leaving the room significantly darker than it had been.

“Bucky?”

He said the name in a whisper, asked it like the most important question in his life. The Soldier raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to deny the name, but before he could, the man in the bed lifted himself on one elbow and patted at his chest. He seemed to find what he was looking for there and pulled out an inhaler- _how do I know that? How do I know what that is? How do I know it’s a different color than it used to be? How do I know this? I’m a weapon, I’m a Soldier, I’m-_ but only glanced at it before returning his gaze to the Soldier and putting it away again, apparently not having use of the inhaler after all. The Soldier closed his mouth.

“Hey, Buck, what’re you… Uh. Whatcha doin?”

The Soldier looked down at his hand, which had sprung to his gun in his surprise. He looked back at Ste- at the man in the bed.

“Tar- target… acquired?”

It was a statement. Dammit, it was a statement, and he didn’t know why his voice came out all soft, all full of some _accent_ that he was pretty sure the higher-ups hadn’t programmed in with his English skills. Steve’s shoulders slumped. He looked… sad.

“Oh. Oh, _Bucky.”_

And then he was reaching out. And the Soldier- no, _Bucky,_ felt the worst stabbing pain of his life shoot through him from his left shoulder. And he doubled over so fast he almost hit his head on the side of the bed.

Steve scrambled upright, grabbed him, pulled him close.

And it was awful, and he realized that he was crying, gasping through the pain into Steve’s chest, and the only good thing about it was that he could suddenly remember _everything._

Steve combed a hand through Bucky’s hair, whispering as he did: “Shhh, it’s okay. I gotcha. I know. I know, know what that’s like. Shhh-hh-hh. Come on, Buck. Come sit up here with me. I gotcha. Always knew you’d come back, punk. Always knew. You know how come? That train wasn’t but halfway, Buck. Just halfway. So’re we. We ain’t but halfway, Buck. You know you got me. You know I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh btw that thing on the table is a gift from Thor to keep Steve alive without food etc. during his coma. It actually breaks when Bucky wakes Steve up, but I don't expect anyone to be upset about that- it served its purpose.


	3. End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What have I done? I meant to make it less cheesy, and this is what happened. I'm so sorry.  
> At least it goes with the fairy tale idea. :P
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

    It had been four hours.  
    Bucky continued to check every clock available, despite the disapproving looks he received from everyone else present. He wasn’t sure what was taking so long- he was due back at the dropoff point an hour ago. Did the technicians and his Handler know he was alive? Did they expect that he had been killed or kidnapped, or did they know that he had…  
    Scowling, Bucky turned back to the window. He didn’t like to think the word _defected,_ because it wasn’t so much about choosing sides as remembering that this was where he’d always belonged. Hydra had _stolen_ him for a few years (okay, a few decades) but that didn’t mean he had any responsibility to be loyal to them, once he remembered what the score really was.  
    That still didn’t explain why it was taking them so long.  
    He knew there was probably a tracking device in his arm somewhere- it could be fairly small, with modern technology, and he didn’t exactly dig around inside the wiring on a regular basis. They couldn’t really check now, either- if Hydra showed up ( _when_ Hydra showed up) he wanted to be fully functional.  
    A warm hand slipped over Bucky’s right shoulder and started massaging the knots there. Bucky hummed a quick note of approval as he kept watch.  
    At least the time had been productive.  
    The brainwashing had more or less worn off with the shock of remembering who Steve was. They’d reminisced for about an hour about old memories as Bucky painfully acclimated to his metal limb once more. Thankfully, the process went much faster than it would have without the serum. When he’d told Steve that they shared the same serum, Steve raised a thoughtful eyebrow and looked him over, but refused to tell Bucky his thoughts on that. Bucky didn’t push- he appreciated the kindness from Steve, remembered their past friendship, and understood _why_ Steve thought they could be fine, but he still didn’t want to push things.  
    Then they’d gone downstairs and Steve had introduced him to the team. Bucky had already forgotten their names, distracted by the weapons pointed at him, and trying not to lunge at the people holding them. These were Steve’s friends. More importantly, these were people assigned to protect Steve, and as such, they were allies.  
    Bucky did pick up on a few things. The ridiculous man (at whom everyone had laughed earlier) was dating the woman. For lack of a better term, Bucky called them technicians. They had weapons, but their knowledge was more useful than their fighting expertise, so they were secreted away in one of the upstairs rooms (away from Steve’s old room, Bucky noted.) They looked scared.  
    The man with the dark hair seemed suspicious of Bucky (which was reasonable) but willing to take Steve’s word about him being on their side now. The man in the turtleneck, however, gave no indication of trusting Bucky whatsoever before picking up his things, going up to an inside balcony, and setting up his sniper rifle. Bucky glanced in that direction now and made eye contact for a harrowing moment before turning away. That was… not comforting.  
    “Don’t worry about him,” Steve murmured in Bucky’s ear as the latter looked back through the window. “Clint’s just annoyed that it’s winter and he has to wear a real shirt.”  
    Bucky wondered for a moment how much Steve had heard during his coma, but asking wasn’t really at the top of his list of priorities. What was, however, was the shadow that suddenly detached from the trees a few yards away. He flung himself behind one of the bookshelves, taking Steve with him.  
    “Incoming!”  
    Just like that, the tension in the air turned to focus. The man with the dark hair vanished. The sniper – _Clint_ – hunched down behind a rail, peering through at the ground below. Steve flattened himself into a corner, bringing Bucky as if this were some sort of dance that they took turns leading.  
    “Are you sure you’re-“ he started in a whisper, but stilled at Bucky’s scowl.  
    “I’m _good,_ ” Bucky snapped under his breath, then turned back to survey the room. One of the windows on the side, a few yards from them, made a scraping noise. Bucky clenched and opened his hands. He didn’t have a weapon, but he didn’t need one. Impulsively, feeling guilty for his slight a few minutes earlier, he landed a quick kiss on Steve’s cheek. He wasn’t sure if that was a thing they were _doing,_ now, but it felt necessary. “See you in a couple minutes, doll.”

    The cracking sound as the window opened the wrong way shouldn’t have surprised anyone, but Bucky could feel himself jump slightly at the sound. He straightened and took a deep breath.

    The first man to climb through the window was a stranger, no one he’d seen at base camp or out on missions. Well. Possibly someone from transportation, since he never paid much attention to those people- _not mission relevant-_ or someone from another mission, since those memories hadn’t come back as quickly as the ones from before the fall. The man immediately reached through the window and pulled in his teammates.  
    One was a woman. For a brief, terrifying second, Bucky was terrified it would be Natasha, but it wasn’t. She was a stranger.  
    One was a technician. He wondered if they intended to operate on him here, when it was cleared out. A rational part of his brain told him that this would make a good base. Hydra’s enemies had chosen the location for good reason.  
    Another woman. She was small, blond, looked confident but frail. She was probably more of a weapons fighter than a hand-to-hand expert, Bucky mused, and sure enough, she pulled out a pistol as she surveyed the room.

    The last member of the team made the breath catch in Bucky’s throat.

    It was his Handler.

    The Handler did not reach for any sort of weapon as the others fanned out and let their eyes grow accustomed to the shadow. He only surveyed the room.

    Pulse thumping, Bucky pulled away from Steve and took a step forward.

    “Asset, report,” the Handler demanded just before his eyes settled on their target, but he didn’t seem surprised.

    “Target located, acquired. Complications ensued.” For a moment, Bucky hesitated before adding “Target eliminated. Exit strategy… incomplete.” Despite the low light, he could still see the Handler frown and open his mouth to ask why the Soldier hadn’t completed the exit strategy according to plan. More important, though, was the sound from the balcony behind him, a sharp _tick_ against the wood of the rail.

    The Soldier dropped to the floor.

    The bullets started a half-second later.

    The Soldier fired off his first round from the floor, then scrambled into a more dignified position by the back wall of the chateau. He couldn’t afford a glance over to Steve’s corner, but hoped that the man had stayed put.

    The first several bullets seemed to have downed the first man into the building, but no one else. The dark-haired agent from earlier had briefly reappeared to block the window exit, but then boarded it over and disappeared once more.  
    Hydra’s agents were fast, and seemed to have bullet-proof protection almost for their entire bodies. It didn’t protect them from getting shot in the head, but just about anything else proved non-fatal. Clint took out another agent. Now it was just the blond woman, the technician, and the Handler. The technician looked scared.

    Bucky took another shot at the Handler, but the man just turned to him quickly and watched him in the dark as the bullet slowed in front of his face and finally dropped. For a moment, all was silent.

    “Bullets do not harm me, Soldier,” the Handler observed in Russian. Bucky wanted to curse at him, but knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Trying for his good Asset voice again, he figured he could at least distract them while the sniper found a better target.

    “Why is that?”

    The Handler just laughed.  
    “You betrayed us,” he reminded Bucky finally. “I don’t share secrets with you. 

    The Hydra operative was moving, but she seemed intent on taking out Clint, rather than interrupting Bucky’s conversation with his Handler. The technician pulled something out of his pocket, probably to see whether it had broken in the hail of bullets. Clint shot him. The technician went down. The woman did not seem bothered by this at all, intent on her work. Bucky left that to Steve’s friends…  
                                                                           … _and speaking of Steve, where is he???_

    Almost as soon as had the thought, he noticed Steve in the shadows, creeping slowly toward the Handler. Dread washed through Bucky at the sight.

    “W-what if I strangled you?”

    The Handler, oblivious to the other super soldier’s approach, smiled.  
    “You could try that. But then you’d have to come over here.”

    Bucky understood.

    They wanted to verify his story that the Target was dead, but first they had to capture him again. The Handler had something with him in order to regain control of the Soldier, either by knocking him out or by some sort of reset. Either option terrified him, but what he _couldn’t allow_ was them doing that to _Steve._

    He broke forward, into a run, only reaching the Handler with his left hand a moment before Steve would. The Handler’s eyes widened as he saw Steve, but he did nothing.

    “Steve,” Bucky snapped without looking away from the Handler’s face. “Check the technician. Signs of life. Hes’- not dangerous. Important information.”

    He wasn’t sure how much of that came out in English, but Steve seemed to get the gist of it and reluctantly went to do as he was told. The Soldier looked back at the Handler, who sneered at him.

    “Cute dog you got there,” he muttered under his breath.

    The Soldier tightened his grip on the Handler’s windpipe from a warning claim to a tight hold, doing his best not to growl.  
    “Wishing you could train him like you trained me?” he asked under his breath. He heard a shot from behind him, but in the corner of his eye he could see Steve look up unharmed, so he didn’t bother to check who’d fired. A few more shots followed. “Too bad you’ll never have the chance.”

    Something stabbed into his leg, just missing his femoral artery.

     _Thin, not going for blood loss. Needle. Intact. Pain… numb. Likely loss of consciousness in under two minutes._

    He squeezed harder. The Handler wasn’t smirking anymore, but pushed down the plunger a little faster, probably as fast as he safely could. Bucky adjusted his time.

_New rate. Under seventy- under one minute remaining._

    His right hand was already losing feeling, but the metal one had a tendency to lock into place rather than go slack. He felt the push of the injection slow just before he fell.

    “Bucky!” –That was Steve’s voice. Steve was…

* * *

    Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair distractedly, watching for any sign of life from his friend. He’d been waiting for over an hour now, so it was a blessing that he didn’t have to wait much longer.  
    Bucky twitched out of his sleep like a grumpy cat, scowling at the world and trying to burrow into Steve’s lap. Steve just laughed.  
    “Good morning, beautiful. Hope you slept well.”  
    Bucky squinted up at him, and for a horrifying moment Steve thought Bucky wouldn’t remember him, but Bucky’s frown was far too comfortable for that.  
    “My leg hurts,” he complained, reaching down to rub it, but Steve batted his hand away.  
    “Yeah. Your, uh, your _handler_ injected you with some pretty serious stuff. You’re gonna have a bruise for a while there, kid.”  
    Bucky grumbled about this and turned his face toward Steve’s stomach. He stayed there for a long moment before adding “You know, these abs are no good for cuddling.” Steve laughed. He had a feeling that wasn’t any better for cuddling.  
    “Sorry, Buck, I’ll have to work on that. Speaking of which, now I can eat again, I think there are pancakes. You want some?”  
    Bucky turned his wide-eyed face back up toward Steve, and Steve realized how long it must have been since either of them had eaten something so frivolous as pancakes.  
    “ _Yes._ ”

    They made a mess of the syrup, but they ate in the kitchen, so it wasn’t a big deal. Steve showed Bucky around the apartment afterward, and after some leisurely showers and rooting around for new clothes, they set about learning this new time, this new world, together. And yeah, sometimes, in the middle of the night, it felt like life would go on and on forever, never-ending line of crises.  
    And sometimes in the middle of the night, Steve would look over at Bucky and smile, realizing that none of those crises were things he would have to fight alone. What had Bucky said to him, all those years ago? Right: _I’m with you to the end of the line, pal._  
    And, you know, Steve could be happy about this going on forever, if they did it this way.  
    And, you know, that’s just what they did. They lived happily ever after, right up to the end of the never-ending line.


End file.
